I was drinking in an open-air bar within the Queens Street Mall in Brisbane. The Queens Street Mall is the center of Brisbane City itself, I'd say. A large, American-style place chock full of shops, McDonalds, and their version of Caldors called Myers, for all the public to enjoy.

Built around the local bus terminal, the Mall gets a lot of foot traffic during the day when the people of Brisbane's surrounding office buildings head out for lunch, and go home to the outer suburbs to live. A lot of teens use the Mall as a meeting spot as well, since there really just isn't a whole lot to do in sleepy Brisbane's outer areas. Especially during a weeknight. And here it was, a weeknight, and I was having quite a bit of trouble trying to figure out Brisbane's rather vague transportation system. After spending the day running around visiting friends, trying to find a bus going out to where I was staying in Albany Creek was turning into being quite a mission.

I could've taken a cab though. But to take a cab out there would be an expensive 25-dollar (Australian) ride. I wanted to wait and take the bus back this time around. And by the way things were looking, I'd have to wait until after 12am, the damn buses being so slow. So, with it being about 10ish, I figured I'd better get some beers in and get drunk for the crawling, boring ride back – it'd make me fall asleep faster anyhow.

So while I'm drinking, I see this poster for Bacardi Breezers (a mixed drink you could find anywhere in the world). The ad was a photo of a white woman hanging onto the leg of a Brother. She looked to be really excited hanging onto one of us. The guy's lower torso made him seem as if he was built like a freight train. His legs looked as if they were made of steel cables sheathed in brown skin. The quote beneath it said: Barcardi Breezers – who knows what could happen. The whole image made me laugh; and I made a mental note to take the poster home with me. I had to show this to the Brothers back in the States!! You just would never see anything like this at home.

But within moments of getting my second beer (and unsuccessfully trying to get the bartender to let me have the poster), a drunk Aboriginal woman comes over. Or at least I thought she was Aboriginal. She was very heavyset, had bug-eyes, dressed real sloppy, and by the looks of her seemed like she had been drinking non-stop all year. She stumbled stupidly up to me and said with slurred speech:

"Mate... ya got a beer you can buy me? I need... a VB."

I shook my head. "No, sorry, I'm out of money."

She became insistent. "Mate... c'mon... just buy me a beer... that's all I want. How about a ciggie instead?"

"No, I'm sorry, I don't smoke."

"Ya know mate," she responded, her big bug eyes lazily moving around the open air bar. "A lot of people here think I'm one of the Aboriginals. But I'm not. I'm from Tahiti."

"Kewl," I said. I just started to think how the hell I was going to get this woman away from me when she got up and left, going to another table to bother some other people sitting nearby. They ignored her.

After she left I relaxed a little. But then her empty seat was taken by an English backpacker I had seen earlier at the bar when I first arrived. He slid right into the seat, staring me straight in my eyes. "How ya doin' mate?"

I looked at him. "Yo, I'm chillin'."

My Black slang confused him for a second. He too was drunk, but not as drunk as the Tahitian woman. "Ah... chillin. Okay... Right on. You cool?"

I gave him a thumbs-up. "I'm cool. Word – you?" He looked at me really confused. "Er – yeah, words – er – what does that mean? Are you from the States?"

I laughed, telling him where I was from. Of course it got the usual response. "The Bronx? Mate that's a dodgy area. I been to New York, but everyone told me to keep away from that area. They all told me I'd be killed."

"Naw, don't worry what people say. You can find trouble anywhere you want to, in the world. You're from England, right?"

"London."

"So I know some areas of London that people consider dangerous. I stayed in a hostel in Kings Cross. It was pretty slimy."

"Though not as dangerous as the Bronx is, I'm sure."

Our conversation continued, talking about the September 11th (a never-ending stream of questions had followed me everywhere about that when I said I was from New York), then on the state of America itself. Our conversation then fell into Australia, and why we both liked it so much.

"So how long have you been here, Tom?" By that time the soft-spoken Tom had given me his name. He was a rather slick-looking guy, with a long brown ponytail and loosely trimmed goatee. He had darty blue eyes that always seemed a little paranoid, always looking around us whenever he spoke, as if he was letting me in on some sort of secret. He was rather tall as well, wearing a thin black overcoat covering his bland street clothes of a collared shirt and jeans. Though he looked to me as if he'd be working as part of a film crew initially, he was actually a backpacker who landed in Brisbane, and was lucky enough to find a job immediately. He hadn't done any traveling since then, just staying in the city, working and drinking at the same pub in the Queens Street Mall.

He took another swill of his beer. "Been here for 3 months. Got here, found a job, and never left. I love it here. I think I want to migrate. You?"

I explained my two previous trips to Oz and how they affected me. He was quite shocked and surprised at some of the stories I had as well. After I was through though, he asked me, "So what is it about Oz that attracts you so much?"

I pointed at the poster, having a revelation at the same time. "That." Tom looked at it and laughed. "Ah, so you like that type of thing, don't you? The white-on-black thing. They don't think much of it here. Or at least when it comes to Black Americans."

"I know," I said. "That's why I like it." I then continued. "It's Australia's innocence. Look at that poster. You would never see something like that in States – except in porno movies. In America we have been so bombarded with racial prejudice that the fear of even putting something like that up on a wall is just far too great than the reaction you would get."

I continued. "These people don't know race riots. They don't know drive-by shootings. They don't know the Ku Klux Klan. They don't know slavery. They don't know the pain/joy of what it is to be a minority in a country whose majority makes you fight for every inch to be within their society.

"They don't know these things. And they show it. It comes out in their humor. Their humor is very blunt, and to the point. In the USA their humor would curl toenails. It also comes out in their advertisements. Like that poster there. And it comes out through their fascination with my own heritage. When they have no reason to know it at all.

"But they do know how successful we've been as a people in the USA," I added. "These people have shocked me every time knowing some Black American history when they have no reason to know it at all. Do you think Americans know Australian history? Hell no. I know I don't."

I was on a roll. "I think that's why I like it here. I can actually NOT worry that the person I'm talking to in a bar has some hidden agenda, or hidden motive when talking to me. They're talking to me because I'm interesting to talk to. Despite the ridiculous questions they ask. It gives me a more relaxed feeling. More at ease. No need to worry."

Tom shook his head in agreement. He too liked Australian society; it seemed a bit less stuffy for him as a Brit, when comparing it to his homeland of England. I couldn't agree with him more – the Australian cynicism was just so overpowering that it put me so at ease – and gave me disdain for some aspects of American society, which can be a bit stuffy just like our British counterparts.

It was near midnight, and I was feeling quite high as I said goodbye to Tom. He wanted me to accompany him to The Palace – a huge hostel just a few blocks away, to try and pick up some backpackers. But I didn't want to go – just not really in the picking up mood right then, for things were a bit hazy after all the VB I'd consumed.

When we both went our separate ways, I couldn't help but think: The innocence of the country is what really attracted me back again and again, this my third trip. Or at least, the innocence of the country when dealing with me. The Tahitian woman on the other hand, was more of a common reality in how Aussies dealt with foreigners in their immediate sphere of influence: Ignorance.

I walked over to the bus terminal downstairs and looked at the time list for the different buses that stopped there. Just after midnight, which was about the right time for the very last bus. I had just begun to have fleeting thoughts that I missed the bus, when one pulled up.

But there was something wrong. The bus number wasn't the right one. I asked the driver, a big Aussie bloke, just where exactly was he going. It wasn't anywhere near Albany Creek.

I asked him how the hell am I supposed to get there then, when the bus schedule says one thing and he was telling me another.

He laughed at me, shrugging his shoulders. "Mate, there's no way you're gonna get there from here. That bus stopped running hours ago, actually not long after the rush hour. I guess you'll have to walk." He closed the door and sped off.

Wonderful. I looked in my wallet. Twenty-five dollars exactly. I knew what that meant.

Time to take a cab.

Questions?
If you want more information about this area you can email the author or check out our Pacific Insiders page.